


cardinal virtues

by NekoAisu



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Crying During Sex, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Dry Orgasm, M/M, Manhandling, Mentions of past injury, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Human Genitalia, One Night Stands, Original Character(s), Overstimulation, PWP, Praise Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Riding, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, handjobs, i said i wanted two lizards sandwiching my catte so i wrote it myself, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 10:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: Keimei is decently sure his ancestors are rolling in their graves when he thinks the wordass.Or: lizard/catte/lizard sandwich but with religious symbolism this time.
Relationships: Au Ra Characters (Final Fantasy XIV)/Original Character(s), Miqo'te Characters (Final Fantasy XIV)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	cardinal virtues

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if i missed any tags nya’ll 💖
> 
> This was supposed to be 2K and not have feelings involved but what can ya do :3c

Kneeling before his love is absolute ecstasy. Z’ahir smiles at him, all teeth and no affection, and reminds, “Do not move.”

Keimei can do that. _Will_ do that. He is wont to stay on his knees and worship at the altar that he is offered in the form of scarred skin and the parting of Z’ahir’s thighs. He expects hands in his hair guiding him into service, or a callous and all too electric grip on his horns holding him back from taking that which he craves so. He is given nothing. No compassion or cruelty. 

He is left be. 

Z’ahir is a vision (as always) made of wild red hair and striking blue eyes like the shallow waters of the Ruby Sea. That Keimei could show him the home he hails from… he may never recover from the thought of Z’ahir wearing a traditional _suikan._ Forget the strip of skin visible between stocking and skirt or along inner thigh from a pair of _kohakama_. To be considering covering up the fulms of skin visible before him feels like blasphemy.

Snapping himself from his ill-advised dream, Keimei lays witness to Z’ahir sitting imperiously atop the lap of the inn room’s other occupant. He settles barely a fulm or two away. If Keimei chose to reach out, he would be able to trace a line from thigh to knee to feline foot. 

It feels like the sweetest ambrosia when Z’ahir says, “Good boy.” His voice is less rough than it was when Keimei had heard it within the coliseum many a year ago, but it still has a terribly hesitant quality to it. The scars left along his jaw and cheek are reminders of days long since abandoned. Keimei wants to map them with his lips. He presses his nails into his thighs instead. Some pain would do him good after so wonderful a reward. 

He tries to ignore the rumbling laugh that follows the Seeker’s shifting and complaining—“Both of you are too large! Was Nhaama a size queen or something?!”—and focuses on his breathing. Z’ahir grumbles, lashing out with a leg to tap him none too gently on the head. 

“Eyes open.”

Keimei looks up and does not manage to keep himself from opening his mouth to apologize. 

Z’ahir does not allow him to speak before he snaps, “I will suffer no further humiliation from you.”

Keimei snaps his mouth shut so quickly he bites the end of his tongue. He had no intent to prove disobedient—and being accused of attempting humiliation is a thousand times worse, considering their history—but has no way to verbally apologize. He instead turns his head to place a reverent kiss on the side of Z’ahir’s foot. 

The Seeker recoils, claws visible when he shakes out his leg and glares at the spot Keimei had kissed like the fur should be burnt off in an attempt at purification. He all but growls, paw pads visible for all of a second when he flexes his toes and shakes his foot again. It is intended to be a show of disgust, but Keimei cannot find it in himself to be particularly repentant. 

(He is showing his affection, is all. Even if he is told he is undeserving, or unworthy, he would persist. He needs but a moment of his love’s attention.)

He is not given the gift or further touch, nor that of voice. Z’ahir huffs and reaches a hand behind himself. He whispers something inaudible and grabs a small bottle of oil from where it was sitting at the bedside. He pauses to slick his fingers but there are hands gently pushing his out of the way and grabbing the bottle before he startles and _oh—_ they’re… inside. Keimei was never allowed to do that. 

The Xaela he perches on laughs quietly when Z’ahir smacks his leg, tail beating an inconsistent rhythm against the sheets, and somehow the Seeker isn’t angry? He never would have been pleased, had Keimei taken liberties with his body. The kiss had been testament to that. 

Keimei knows that he is the addition for the night (and how unfair it is to him after all the things he did for Z’ahir that the Seeker holds him in contempt for. It was all for _him)_ and that it is _only_ for the night. He will never have that effortless confidence in the face if rejection.

(Once the sun rises, he will have no further chances for worship.) 

The impermanence makes him greedy. 

The kami will surely smite him for his avarice, but he finds he does not care so much as he _disregards_. For a man of lauded spirituality, it feels nearly like sin and absolution at once. 

He is laying witness to a revelation, he tells himself. That there are so many sides yet unknown to him is no surprise, but that there is one so giving feels too intimate. Heat rises to his cheeks and pulses through his body. 

“I swear to— _Farai!_ Stop that,” Z’ahir says, composed enough to bluster despite there being… being fingers… 

What self control he held shatters like ill-tempered glass. 

_Ah. This is impossible._

Keimei feels he may implode before he manages to follow the single command he has been given. His hands twitch when Z’ahir gasps, nails digging harshly into Farai’s arm. He wants to touch, to soothe, to offer some comfort, but there is another half-gasp and a bitten off noise… his thighs press together on reflex. Farai’s eyes snap to him from above Z’ahir’s head. Twin points of red bore into him with intent.

“He is not obedient, your devotee,” the Xaela comments, free hand shifting from where it rested against the Seeker’s thigh to hold his hip. The new grip allows him to keep Z’ahir from wiggling about at will and earns him a frustrated chirp in return. “Are you being a brat for attention, Ahir?”

“No.”

“Liar,” Farai says, voice carrying no accusation. Keimei can see the arm behind Z’ahir flex before the resultant moan forces him to bite his lip to keep from untying his _hakama_ and shoving a hand gracelessly into his underwear.

That was loud. Louder than he had been when Keimei had laid under him. Jealousy burns bright in his chest before he can quell it, but is thoroughly drowned in the sea of pleasure building in his core that he cannot separate his lust for affection from that of simple, carnal pleasure. 

Z’ahir spits an unintelligible warning in a tongue Keimei has never heard. Farai laughs, seemingly versed in it, and asks, “Are my fingers not enough for you? Should I ask your devotee to assist?”

Keimei is not sure if he can imagine one (1) finger inside… there. Inside of Z’ahir. Doing that. Much less, that of Farai having multiple—“Come here.”

Keimei blinks. He opens his mouth to ask, _Me? Are you sure?_ but thinks better of it at the last second. There is no one else around who could have been beckoned to their side. 

He stands and is proud to admit that he barely wobbles. Despite the growing ache between his legs, he manages a reasonable two and a quarter steps before standing very awkwardly before the edge of the bed. Farai smiles, teeth bright against the deep blue of his skin, and says, “Closer.”

It feels like condemnation.

He places a hand on the bed and hesitantly climbs up on it to kneel. He kicks his shoes off— _geta_ clattering against the floor where they fall—and waits. Z’ahir continues making small, nearly inaudible sounds punctuated by curses and commands (“a little harder” and “another” and “hurry up” are common phrases). This close, he can hear the tail end of muted moans where they falter and fade in his throat. 

He can also hear the slick sound of Farai’s fingers moving in… in Z’ahir’s… 

Keimei is decently sure his ancestors are rolling in their graves when he thinks the word _“ass.”_

“Come. Sit next to me,” Farai says, voice nearly coaxing rather than commanding. When Keimei looks nervously at Z’ahir and the general lack of displeasure radiating from him, Farai pats the bed not unlike if he were calling a pet. His smile does not falter.

Keimei settles down stiffly. He has little if not absolutely _no_ idea what to do. 

Z’ahir huffs, tail end of the sound turning to a growl when Farai pulls his fingers out. There is nothing soft about the sound and yet Farai smooths his clean hand down Z’ahir’s back to rub circles near to the base of his tail. The spot he focuses on most is right above a scar that streaks from hip to spine in faded pink. 

Keimei knows that scar. It is the one he caused.

“Stop staring.”

He startles, pulled from the beginnings of a reverie by Z’ahir’s vitriol. His guilt must be painted on his face, clear to see, because he earns a scoff instead of a swat. 

Farai intervenes before the Miqo’te’s look of distaste can harden into a glare. “Would you like something back, Ahir?”

“Ye-s,” he snaps, voice cutting out halfway through and leaving his “s” to whisper. He grimaces. “Yes,” he repeats. “Please.”

It takes Keimei a second to process. The vocal damage had not been as bad when he was visiting the coliseum, but Z’ahir had been a man of painfully few words as well. He never repeated himself. He never apologized.

He never said _please._

Farai’s expression softens and becomes something past simple happiness. It borders on adoration. Keimei knows because he looks at Z’ahir much the same. “Keimei, was it?”

“Yes, sir,” he answers. Farai laughs not at all unkindly.

“No titles here,” he says gently. “Farai is fine.”

“My apologies.”

The Xaela passes him the bottle of oil, Keimei’s ivory scaling and stark white skin nearly too sharp a contrast to his black and midnight blue when their hands touch. The lid is slick and slips slightly against his palm when he pries it open. In comparison to his palm, it seems like a reasonably sized vial. In comparison to Z’ahir, however, the difference in their size becomes all too obvious.

Keimei holds no illusions in regards to his endowment and its inability to fit in smaller partners. Namely, how Z’ahir is barely more than half his height, short a few fulms on Farai, and wants more than the girth of three (comparatively large) fingers stretching him out.

Once his hand is slicked, Farai guides him to press two fingers against Z’ahir’s a—he can’t say it. He really, truly can’t. It’s too crude! Unholy in thought and damning in speech.

Farai seems to have to qualms taking his shyness in stride and helping him work one and then the other and then even a third finger in. They adjust when Keimei’s arm cramps up a bit, Z’ahir bookended by Farai in front and Keimei at his back. It is mostly so that Z’ahir can muffle himself in Farai’s neck and ignore his lack of composure. Though, given how easy it is for Farai to hold him in place (rather than allowing him to vibrate out of his skin), it may have been for more than their shared partner’s comfort. 

Keimei works a fourth finger in alongside the others. 

It feels _dirtier_ like this, with Farai instructing him and Z’ahir trembling like a livewire whenever he pumps his fingers in and out and scissors them to watch a thrill zip down his spine. Being able to see his back is lovely, Keimei would like to assert, but the sight of his face would be better. He wonders if there would ever be a softening of the tempered gaze he holds. 

Farai asks, “How are we?”

Keimei responds with a nervous little smile and receives an encouraging one in turn. 

Z’ahir… is not so pleased.

“Stop being a godsdamned _tease!”_

“Pardon?”

Farai sighs, moving a hand from where it had been rubbing at his ears to slide lower until it’s just barely missing the Seeker’s arousal, drawing patterns on his skin instead. “Is this better?”

“No!”

Acting on autopilot left over from years of trade, Keimei asks, “What would please you?” 

He feels vaguely adrift when Z’ahir turns his head to look at him, hair spilling over his shoulders in fiery ringlets, and demands, “Just put it in.”

He feels like a boat set adrift with no crew. Putting it in… _how?_ Would it fit? _Z’ahir, please tell me you haven’t taken leave of your senses!_

“Do you want him first, Ahir?” Farai is less than concerned with the seemingly spontaneous acceptance of Keimei’s presence and full participation than the man himself. “You might be too loose, otherwise.” 

Keimei has no idea how to react if not simply keeping quiet. “Too loose.” How could Z’ahir be _loose_ if the chances of Keimei fitting at _all_ are slim to none? He is not sure he wants to know.

His fingers have long since stilled from shock when Z’ahir says quietly, “Yeah. Want you after. To feel it.”

Farai turns his head, careful of the forward-facing points on his horns, and presses a kiss to Z’ahir’s head. The soft intimacy is shattered when his hand shifts all too quickly to fist his cock. Z’ahir cries out, the sound short and uncontrolled. His tail whips around and smacks Keimei squarely in the gut. It is by no means a debilitating blow, but it still knocks some air out of him.

He cannot see what, exactly, Farai is doing with his hand beyond that of the sound of skin-on-skin. It is not of much concern when he is told, “Keep your fingers moving. You’ll know when you’ve found the spot.”

There is a good bit of fumbling and fingering before he nudges something that makes Z’ahir _whimper._ He worries that it is from pain, that maybe he is causing discomfort instead of pleasure, and eases out slightly before Farai smiles. It’s full of too many sharp teeth and a predator’s confidence. 

It locks him in place. 

“What are you doing?”

Keimei fumbles for an answer he finds he does not need because Farai simply continues on, hand still moving with assumed precision.

“Keep going,” he says, red eyes bright where they watch Keimei struggle to adjust to the attention. “You need not worry. You’d be surprised by how much he can fit when he puts his mind to it.”

Keimei is reminded that, aside from Z’ahir’s nakedness, both he and Farai are in possession of their decency. He worries that maybe Farai does not understand what it is that separates Raen from Xaela other than the color of their scales. 

It is a ridiculous assumption, he realizes, when he presses all too insistently on that spot inside Z’ahir and the Seeker falls apart. Keimei can feel the shocks of pleasure manifesting in sharp tremors, nothing but a choked-up gasp serving as warning before the Seeker climaxes.

Farai pulls his hand back after a moment and says, “You dirtied my pants, Ahir. Ah, washing this out will be frustrating.”

“Your fault,” the Seeker says between breaths. “Should have taken them off earlier.” He pants, tension releasing in the wake of orgasm, and coughs a few times. Farai grabs the waterskin he left sitting at their bedside and helps him drink.

“Throat acting up?”

Z’ahir nods, coughing a couple more times. He slowly sips through a little more. 

Keimei is expecting something similar to his own endowment, when Farai excuses himself from the bed to unlace his pants and toss them into a pile of presumably-dirty clothing. He gets nothing of the sort. 

Farai… does not have a penis. Where Keimei knows Raen to have their endowment, there is instead a barely visible slit. Had he not been looking so closely, he likely would have missed it. The swirls of scaling are split vertically and the barest _hint_ of something pink can be seen if he squints hard enough (not that he _is,_ but he may be staring a little too intently). 

Z’ahir purrs, languid and pleased, and says, “Not out yet. Pity.”

“What… is not out?” Keimei feels a little dumb for asking, but he can’t quite understand what could fit so flat inside the body otherwise. Even female Raen grow visibly bloated when they are carrying eggs. He cannot imagine it being a—

“My penes.”

Ah. Maybe he should have paid more attention when Hancock had been lecturing him on biology and social norms. Maybe he wouldn’t be gaping like a fish if he had.

Z’ahir laughs. “Think you broke him.”

Farai frowns. His voice is carefully neutral when he asks, “Is this okay with you, Keimei? I know some are discomfited by how me and mine are built.”

“I…” He stops. He swallows. He deliberates possibly going back in time to become a nun so that he can avoid admitting that the idea of Farai having more than one is… it gets him _hot_ . Really, truly, _embarrassingly_ hot. 

“Would you like to nod instead?”

He fumbles with his hands and his words before simply taking the offer and nodding. Z’ahir raises a brow at his silence but makes no further comment.

Farai never stops looking pleased. 

He asks, “Disrobe for us?”

Keimei does, though his hands tremble when they untie the knots keeping his trousers in place. He folds them carefully and sets them aside, shimmying out of his underwear with feigned confidence. He does not want to appear as someone unwilling. 

He stands, naked as he was at birth, and internally prays to the kami that Farai will not take offence to his very obvious arousal. He was invited solely to please Z’ahir and yet he is more than charmed by his love’s partner. It is terrible of him, he knows. He was taught to let go of mortal wants—most of all, lust—but he is still just as covetous as he was prior to learning of scripture. He is committing a sin every time Farai humms or smiles or looks at him like Keimei is worth the heat in his gaze. 

He should stop before he is struck down for it. 

Farai makes a pleased sound deep in his chest. He does not seem to mind that Keimei is a bit past half hard (if anything, it nets him an appraising and appreciative look). His hands fidget and flutter with the urge to cover back up and sit in a corner where he can be modest in body and salacious in mind.

Z’ahir looks at him, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, and says, “I thought I told you not to move.” There is an edge of indignation to his words that cuts past his usual irascible tone. Keimei assumes it to be jealousy (he is making eyes at his lover, after all).

“My apolo—“

“Or speak.”

Keimei grimaces. Z’ahir’s cruelty is nothing new. He enjoys it. Instigates it. Wants for more of it. He would also like to not be torn between following the orders of one over the requests of the other. 

It would be devastating to be dismissed out of hand.

Farai takes pity on him and steps forward. The sudden proximity makes him want to back up and maybe back out of the room. For all that he is taller, Farai has all the muscle Keimei lacks. Should he wish to, it would take little effort to force him into place and keep him there.

The thought sends an ill-advised thrill down his spine. 

“Nervous?” Farai smiles at him, likely attempting to soothe but only succeeding in stoking the heat between his legs. It is not so patient as it is hungry. 

He is not the only one wanting. 

Z’ahir groans, rolling over on the bed. He stretches, body on display without shyness or care, and pats the space next to him. “Hurry it up.”

Farai huffs a laugh. His voice is teasing when he asks, “Or what? You’ll do it without us?”

“Yes!”

“You can only push down one of us, Ahir,” he reminds, “and not all are so docile as your devotee.”

The Seeker raises a brow, expression one of contempt and amusement, and asks, “Sooo… that’s a no to the hurrying up?”

“Yes.”

“Rude,” he says, the anger in his voice clearly feigned when put with his lack of tension and the calm lay of his tail. 

Farai simply shrugs and asks, quietly enough that Keimei knows it is solely for his ears, “May I touch you?” 

Keimei bites his lip. It takes a moment of internal debate before he nods shallowly and Farai is already reaching out toward him to—to touch his— _“Ah.”_

“I told you he made nice noises,” Z’ahir says, fiddling with the cap on the bottle of lube. “Too bad he has a bad personality.”

Farai pays him no mind, one hand working over the planes of Keimei’s body (and the _sound_ he made when a finger brushed against one of his nipples. He may never recover) while the other feels him out with careful strokes and pressure in places that make him see _stars._ There is very little he can manage to articulate _before_ Farai slicks up his hand and absolutely _nothing_ he can manage afterward. The smooth motion of his hand against his cock is too much and he cannot keep his hands from reaching out for something to anchor himself with. 

Farai pulls his hair with practiced precision and oh. _Oh._ Everything narrows down to a sharp, firelike pain and he is _gone._ Beyond care and obedience. Beyond warning that Farai should maybe stop before he falls over the precipice. 

Beyond caring whose name he calls while in the throes of pleasure. 

He feels like a livewire, tingles running all down his body to leave nothing but heat in their wake, and knows that maybe he should have told Farai that Raen don’t cum the way Miqo’te do. He can feel himself pulsing without spilling and Farai’s hand doesn’t stop and it’s nearly _painful_ by the time he begins to come down and the sensation stops. 

His head rings.

Someone is talking to him but they sound muted. He blinks the spots from his eyes. 

“Wow,” he hears someone say. Z’ahir maybe? It seems a bit too low for him, though. “That was something.”

“Told you so.”

“Are you with us, Keimei? Need a breather?” 

He makes a vague noise. Words are very difficult. 

“Don’t worry. You can kee goi— _hn.”_

Farai speaks and the sound translates as a rumble from his chest to Keimei’s. When did they get this close? To be touching like lovers is not something he was told he could expect, much less have. 

The ringing clears. He takes a measured breath. 

He still throbs with the need to cum.

He reaches downward dumbly, hands trembling and brain knocked halfway to the seventh heaven. Farai stops him. 

Z’ahir says, unkind as always, “No touching.”

Of all the orders he has been made to follow, Keimei is not sure he will be able to obey this one. He wants to feel more of that terrible, wonderful sensation. He wants to _cum._

“What a beautiful show you gave me,” Farai says, desire dripping off every word. “Ahir says you can keep going. Is that true?”

Keimei nods, uncoordinated. 

He receives a soothing rub along the length of his horns. It sets his nerves singing all over again because that is supposed to be reserved for family or lovers. He leans into the touch while he still can. 

He wishes they would stop giving him things he cannot truly have. 

There is an indignant string of curses followed by the sound of a feline tail thumping against the bedsheets. When Keimei looks over, he sees Z’ahir panting, one hand clutching at a pillow while the other has fingers buried up to the last knuckle in his ass, tail whipping about and making a racket because he needs attention and he needs it _now._

All of his encounters during their days within the Coliseum ended as soon as Z’ahir had taken his fill, generally long after Keimei had shaken to pieces and messed his smallclothes. He was never allowed to touch more than necessary, to take freely, to give Z’ahir anything more than specifically what he demanded. 

The Miqo’te before him feels like an entirely separate person from the man he knew. It is not a bad thing. 

Farai guides him back to bed and sits, crossing his legs like he is not about to enable Keimei to lay back and try not to ascend when Z’ahir takes him. His lack of anxiety is both a balm and salt against the wound in Keimei’s heart. 

There is a little bit of shifting and a lot of manhandling (Farai holds no illusions about Z’ahir’s stubbornness) before they are all settled once more. Keimei tries not to think about how mortifying it is to be laying on his back because they can both see his _face_ and if the heat in his cheeks is any indication, he has been wearing a near-permanent blush for well over a bell. 

Z’ahir climbs over him and sits just near enough to his arousal that it takes all his control to not shift his hips and rut desperately against the Seeker’s backside. “Let’s see how long you last this time, pretty boy,” he says. 

The pet name makes Keimei want to smother himself with a pillow and scream. 

He isn’t—he’s not—! Pretty! Him! Nearly ten fulms of bookish Raen is not that. He is not attractive in that way. Z’ahir is likely saying it to fluster him and—“He is very pretty, isn’t he?”

Keimei is of the opinion that Farai really needs to stop enabling Z’ahir’s sweet brand of torture. And perhaps put his hands back on him sometime soon.

While he does not get that wish granted, he is blessed in the form of Z’ahir standing up on his knees, one hand braced on Keimei’s chest while the other reaches behind him. The noise that escapes him when Z’ahir touches him is _criminal._ He is still over-sensitive and yearning for more. There is a suspicious amount of slickness to his palm when he works Keimei over with perfunctory motions. His smug little smile is all the warning Keimei gets before he shifts his weight to pin his hips down and take that which he wants. 

There is a certain reverence that follows in the wake of seeing Z’ahir sink down on him. If Keimei were a better, more pious man, he may have written scripture on it. As it is, he simply knits his fingers in the sheets and very consciously fights back the impulse to _touch._ It feels too good—too much already—and he is acutely aware that Z’ahir is not even halfway down before his hips lift. Each time he drops back down on him, it is to take another ilm. Keimei is not sure if it is caution or purposeful abuse of his self control.

He’s _tight._ Keimei worries that the measured one-two of his breathing is to manage pain because he isn’t made to fit in Miqo’te. Raen are simply incompatible by virtue of their endowments being more than most partners bargain for. There is a nearly immutable compulsion that says he should thrust upward, that the pleasure he feels will be greater if he does, but he stays very. Perfectly. Still. And does not disobey the order he was given. 

By the time Z’ahir is seated flush against Keimei’s hips, there is a definite tremor to his thighs. Farai makes an appreciative sound at the sight of it. 

He reaches out and disentangles Keimei’s hands from the sheets, citing it being bad for the weave and for his joints. Keimei is decently sure retaining feeling in his fingers is the least of his concerns at this point. He can barely _think,_ let alone have the composure to worry about a couple small cramps. 

Z’ahir smiles at him, self-satisfaction rolling off of him in waves, and asks, “Too good for you?”

Keimei opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again and clears his throat. He squeaks, “Yes. A bit.”

“Good.”

Farai pets his hair. His voice is placating when he says, “Shall we wait a moment? You look so good, Ahir.”

Z’ahir grumbles, red rising to his cheeks at the compliment. “I know,” he replies. “That’s why you like to ruin me.”

Keimei listens. He tries not to imagine Farai decimating Z’ahir and fails spectacularly. He breathes. He allows himself to _need._

Z’ahir gives him everything he prays for all at once. Keimei _drowns_ in it. 

It’s the rake of his nails down his chest, the fever-bright shine of his eyes when he whispers praise like _“good boy”_ and “ _so obedient.”_

How he gives himself over to pleasure openly and with abandon as if to say, _“I am more than you deserve. You alone will not satisfy my needs.”_

Keimei wants to be good for him. He wants so badly it nearly _hurts_. Every compliment sets him shuddering. He is not sure he should be as loud as he is in response, but there is little he can do to muffle himself without biting clean through his bottom lip. 

He is helpless but to lay still and allow himself to be used. It is a duty he would gladly see through. Though, considering how his toes are beginning to curl, he knows it will not be all too long before he is freed from it. 

Z’ahir laughs, the sound breathless and incomplete where it catches on a moan. His legs must be _burning_ with how heavily he has come to rely on his arms, but he does not stop. Each thrust is accompanied by a slight grind that sets Keimei’s mouth running in a way he wishes to stop. It is not just a stream of _ah, ah_ but sometimes attempts at graciousness. He is not sure even a single “thank you” makes it from his mind to his lips. 

Farai leans in, shushing him gently, and somehow, impossibly, Keimei had nearly forgotten he was there. Just to the side. Able to see Z’ahir take him apart without so much as a word of complaint. 

Keimei thinks he may need to throw himself face-first into the Ruby Sea, after this. He will never live it down. 

He expects a hand, or maybe fingers to silence him. Farai gives him a kiss, instead. Their horns knock into each other awkwardly and Keimei accidentally bites his own tongue when Z’ahir pinches a nipple hard enough to make him wince. It’s wonderful to feel that shock of pain because it clears his mind somewhat. It is also terrible because that means he is acutely aware of Farai brushing back Keimei’s thoroughly messed hair to suck a bright and bruising mark high on his throat. 

Even his most formal uniform would fail to cover it. 

The thought excites him.

Being between them is like being caught outside during a monsoon. They are relentless, powerful, forces to be reckoned with even if they _weren’t_ set on making sure Keimei can no longer see straight.

They are _dangerous_. 

The thrill of receiving such affection is addictive. He needs it like a drug even while experiencing the high. 

He never wants it to end. 

But it does, eventually. He shivers and quakes, nails biting into his own thighs to try and fight off the inevitable, but it crests over him like a wave. He is dragged under by it, his entire awareness shattered to pieces with the suddenness of his orgasm and how it was brought on by Z’ahir holding his hand, of all things.

(And his hand is so _tiny_ where it rests against his palm. The callusing and scars make them look older than they are and delicate at the same time.)

He came because Z’ahir _held his hand._

It is the best orgasm of his entire life. Maybe even his entire _existence._

The pleasure drags out for what feels like an eternity. There are lips against his neck, a hand entwined with his, a sweetly singing voice echoing in his head, and so much more compounding on top that he can barely _breathe._

Coming down from the high is a mercy. He listens to Farai murmur sweet nothings and wishes they were for him and not Z’ahir. He feels greedy, like he would like to lock away all that he has been given in perfect memory, and so very sad. 

The night is moving ever closer to its end. 

There is wetness on his face. He assumes it to be sweat until Farai asks, “Why are you crying?”

Oh. He… might be crying, yes. “I… I do not want to leave.”

Z’ahir huffs, leaning against one of Keimei’s bent legs. “Or what,” he says with some levity, “you’ll die?”

“Yes.”

Farai and Z’ahir laugh. Keimei hopes they know he is ninety-nine percent serious. He would die for them.

The laughter cuts off.

He… said that out loud, didn’t he? That isn’t good. Z’ahir will be angry with him for being an “obsessive little bitch” as he usually is. He can’t help it. 

He is only seeking affection from the man he loves. 

They are quiet. He hopes he has not broken the terms of their arrangement. 

Z’ahir says, tired and not a little bit miffed, “Then you can stay right here and die.”

“That is not very nice, Ahir.”

“And neither is his etiquette,” he sniffs. “Cumming because I held his hand. Cute. Annoying. _Messy.”_

Keimei is reminded that he gave no warning. Z’ahir had been fully atop him when he came in his… 

He has to recite a verse from an invocation to keep himself from looking past the curve of a neck to toned arms and lower, lower, lower to the mess leaking out and down his thighs. Maybe reciting the entire scripture would have been better for all the help the single verse provides.

Farai helps him sit up and offers water. They sit around to collect themselves while Keimei sips slowly at the waterskin. Z’ahir taps impatiently at Farai’s leg. 

It is only when Keimei is done with the water and safely situated against the headboard that Farai wraps his hands around the width of Z’ahir’s waist and pulls him into his lap. His fingers overlap by a few ilms.

Their dynamic is very different without Keimei to disturb it. Farai asks for consent. Z’ahir gives it, gets impatient about not having everything when he wants it, and is forced into learning patience and decency when Farai holds him in place and reprimands him for bad behavior. It isn’t true criticism, but it is just harsh enough that Keimei can see Z’ahir throb, leaking all over himself when Farai shoves his face into the sheets like he is easy to pin down. He can see the fight trapped in every ilm of him, muscle bunching because he can afford to fight back without worry of hurting Farai. 

It is a surety Keimei cannot provide.

Farai is far less graceful in his conquest. He is not _boorish_ , but the gentleness and care Keimei had grown used to is not there as it was with him. He asks simple yes-or-no questions and reminds Z’ahir to answer with sharp tugs on his hair. No matter how much the Seeker snaps and growls, he is not set free. 

Farai ruts up against him, leaning in to whisper something Keimei is not privy to, and the seam that was previously disguised splits open for the head of one and then another cock. Z’ahir shivers and his frustrated wriggling kicks up nearly tenfold. Keimei finds himself fascinated with the picture they make as much as he is with how Xaela fit two entire penes within such a smooth and bulkless pouch. Maybe he should be more preoccupied with how those will fit inside Z’ahir (given that the length and girth of _one_ of those is close to that of his own endowment) rather than the technicalities of biology, but he also wonders if maybe… he could take them. 

It is an impossible dream, but he is finding it difficult to deny himself that fantasy. 

He pulls himself back to the present to watch them move together. It takes some cursing and careful fucking and a _lot_ of lube before they’re inside and Farai makes a face like keeping himself still physically _pains_ him. Z’ahir simply pants, eyes hazy, and makes miniscule noises every time Farai shifts even the slightest bit. 

He is beautiful. 

It takes three questions of _are you alright_ before Z’ahir stops attempting to cope and rasps a “yes, so good” like Farai could possibly restrain himself after hearing his voice that wrecked. 

They haven’t even begun and he is already a mess. Keimei wonders what he would sound like if someone took him into their mouth as well. 

His mouth waters.

The first thrust catches both of them off guard. Farai rolls hips hips shallowly, one hand on Z’ahir’s hip while the other keeps Z’ahir prone below him. Had he not been doing so, Keimei is willing to bet that the Miqo’te would have vibrated himself right off the bed. Instead, he gives a choked gasp. The next tears a moan out of him even when he muffles it in the sheets. 

The longer it goes on, the louder he becomes until hai voice cuts out altogether. Farai watches him carefully before reaching toward his front and taking hold of his cock. 

Z’ahir makes a noise that sounds like death (if death was less than six fulms tall and also sexy) and Farai comments, nearly offhanded if not cor the hitch in his breathing, “If you don’t make him cum before, he’ll do it the moment you’re inside. Too tight to move when he does.”

Keimei… is not sure what to do with that information. He settles for filing away for a cold night and gives a vague sound of mortification.

Z’ahir growls, the usual rumble of it interrupted by how Farai seems intent on punching the air from his lungs with every thrust. 

“Ask nicely.”

His growl intensifies before lessening. His ears flick before pinning back and he bares his neck in a way that’s less submission and a lot more trust. 

Running widthwise about his neck is a section scraped raw by his old collar. It is not a spot he would allow others to touch. 

“Beautiful,” Farai says. Maybe Keimei is not the only one with a weakness for praise. If it makes him leak that heavily, perhaps it is a necessity to provide. “Wonderful. You feel incredible.”

Farai works him over from head to toe with teeth and touch. It is nearly like a beautiful mauling, for all the damage that is done. There are reddish marks blooming along his neck and shoulders, int scrapes from Farai’s nails biting a little bit too hard into his skin, and the bright pink of his ass and thighs from punishing swats laid in response to misbehavior. By the time he cums again, there are tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks and clumping his lashes. It is only once he spills onto the sheets that he truly begins to cry. Farai powers through it, listening to the shuddering breaths and _ah-ah_ s that morph into sobs as be pushes the Seeker from pleasure to nearly painful overstimulation. 

Farai asks, “Want it inside?”

He gets a broken nod. 

Keimei may have to rethink his preconceived limits of what Miqo’te bodies can take because Farai lifts Z’ahir up, holding him flush to his chest with an arm braced over his front, and Keimei spots a bulge. An honest-to-the-kami _bulge._

Farai meets his gaze and smiles in that predatory way all over again. Keimei knows he has been caught but can’t muster the decency to be ashamed because that! In Z’ahir! There’s a bulge! 

It is a good thing Keimei had cum a short while prior or he would be more than ready to go again at the visual he is witnessing. 

Z’ahir’s hands scrabble for something to hold where they are pinned by his sides when Farai gives a particularly deep thrust and he gives a high whine. They still. 

The bulge gets ever so slightly larger. 

Keimei feels he may combust. 

Farai had cum inside. Farai had—in the same place! And Z’ahir simply begins to purr like a well-pleased housecat when Farai pulls out and wipes them all down with a wet cloth. 

Keimei accepts the pampering but cleans up what he can. He is nearly halfway to pulling on his _hakama_ when Z’ahir clears his throat. 

His voice is nearly gone when he says, “Stay. You can leave in the morning. After breakfast.”

“Are you quite sure?”

Z’ahir scowls. “Yes.”

Farai laughs, helping massage out a cramp in one of the Seeker’s legs, and sats, “There is plenty of room.”

Keimei can do nothing if not accept. Even if it hurts more come morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback me please i will cry if i get even the barest fraction of a kind comment


End file.
